So you want to be a writer? Well, then write.
That's it?
Makes sense, doesn't it? You want to be a swimmer, you swim. You want to be a singer, you sing. You want to be fighter, you fight. Want to be a builder, you build. You want to be a writer, write. Simple.
But not.
What do I write about? Can I just sit down and write? No inspiration pushing me, driving me, compelling me to write? Who wants to read scribbles and babble? Do I not need a reason to write? A mission? A point, a goal?
What is your goal? To be a writer. Then write.
But that's not it-- is it?
No, you don't want to be a writer. You love to write. But more than that, you love to change. To change yourself, to be changed, to feel yourself and see yourself changed. But just as much, you love to change others. You love to, you desire so badly for others to join you in change. To live the change you've felt in your heart. That's your heart-- your passion. Have I got it?
No. You got part of it. It's deeper. Much deeper. For I see within myself no change. And that's what drives my desire to write. Notice: I say within myself. Yeah, I've changed much on the outside. Hair. Clothes. Music. Other things maybe. That's change you can put a finger on. Only a finger. But the heart . . .
Scars. And spreading like a leprous scab is a scar that gathers its covering across my heart to prevent change, to retard passion, to suffocate love. And all my radical, sincere, passionate outward change is discovered to be merely an emotional wave that washes over my face leaving a new piece of the facade with each new inundation.
So where does that leave me? Desiring to change? Of course. But isn't everyone? How strongly do I desire to change? Or should I ask, How deeply do I love the warm, calming shallow water? And somehow it helps to know I'm not alone. For as Mark Hall confesses, we are both
“Fearless warriors in a picket fence,
reckless abandon wrapped in common sense,
deep water faith in the shallow end.”
And though our eyes are “wide open to the differences” we are trapped in the strongest web of all-- our desires . . . for the picket fence; for the natural, instinctual common sense; for that easy and calm shallow end.
That's why I want to write. To change. To tell you not to be like them-- or me. To lift up my shirt, reveal my scabby, scarred heart. To remind myself of the passion I once was. To try once again to convince myself . . . to change.
That's it.
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
What If Jesus Meant Everything He Said?
You’ve heard from your mother, your father, your professor, the teenager at work, all the best wisdom man can give you. And it makes sense—if there is no life after this one. However, I am a disciple of Christ. I look for a city not built by the wisdom of man. Sometimes in that search Christ leads me to things that don’t make sense. So then is that to be rejected? Because it’s not logical, because it doesn’t make sense? What Christ said about self-denial, giving up everything to the poor, hating your family, not worry about the basic needs of life . . . was that really hyperbole? My question is, What if Jesus meant everything He said?
Thinking. Always thinking.
But ever getting closer?
I wonder.
Though I feel the loser,
I wonder
if it is not simply a difference
in values and what is
valuable. Make sense?
My life: nothing but His.
All this world’s gloss
I’m counting it loss,
Losing the dross,
Seeking the kingdom first,
Seeking for better or worse
That fount to quench all thirst.
And I wonder,
Did Jesus really mean
everything He said?
The riches, pleasures, and comforts of this earth are something to be laughed at, not clung to.
If our great God (with Whom nothing is impossible) leads a husband to a "comfortable", established life in a civilized culture where the family can rely on his job or church support and the local health facilities and where they'll have a set routine everyday where the husband won't have to travel much either alone or with the family . . . then he’d be reasonable. Then you could understand. Then that man would be “responsible.”
But if He leads a husband to a ministry where from day to day, year to year he is completely trusting God for his financial income, where there is no hospital or even clinic just down the road, where you have to boil your drinking water, shake out your shoes every morning and bleach your eating dishes (such as they might be). Where the family might move to a new home every three years, where the persecution is vicious and your enemies are everywhere. Where each day you awake and place the protection and provision of your family completely in your God's hands-- and you know that you have no other choice because there's too much against you for you to take care of them in your own power. Where you believe in and see miracles as God's normal working . . . then, that’s hyper-radical, unreasonable, irresponsible, because there's no way to raise a family in a lifestyle like that.
He should have, of course, done the Apostle Paul thing. Only single males can follow Jesus like that. I mean Jesus couldn’t really have meant for the principles and outright commands He gave in Luke 9:23, 24, 57-62; 12:4-7, 22-34; 14:26-33; 18:18-30; 21:1-4 to be applied to ALL Christians-- even wives and children!
But that quiet, firm voice will not leave us alone: What if Jesus really meant everything He said?
Matthew 5:38-48-- “You have heard that it was said, 'An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth.' But I say to you, Do not resist the one who is evil. But if anyone slaps you on the right cheek, turn to him the other also. And if anyone would sue you and take your tunic, let him have your cloak as well. And if anyone forces you to go one mile, go with him two miles. Give to the one who begs from you, and do not refuse the one who would borrow from you. You have heard that it was said, 'You shall love your neighbor and hate your enemy.' But I say to you, Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you, so that you may be sons of your Father who is in heaven. For he makes his sun rise on the evil and on the good, and sends rain on the just and on the unjust. For if you love those who love you, what reward do you have? Do not even the tax collectors do the same? And if you greet only your brothers, what more are you doing than others? Do not even the Gentiles do the same? You therefore must be perfect, as your heavenly Father is perfect.”
Matthew 16:24-27-- “Then Jesus told his disciples, 'If anyone would come after me, let him deny himself and take up his cross and follow Me. For whoever would save his life will lose it, but whoever loses his life for my sake will find it. For what will it profit a man if he gains the whole world and forfeits his life? Or what shall a man give in return for his life? For the Son of Man is going to come with his angels in the glory of his Father, and then He will repay each person according to what he has done.' "
Luke 14:25-33-- "Now great crowds accompanied him, and he turned and said to them,
'If anyone comes to me and does not hate his own father and mother and wife and children and brothers and sisters, yes, and even his own life, he cannot be my disciple. Whoever does not bear his own cross and come after me cannot be my disciple. For which of you, desiring to build a tower, does not first sit down and count the cost, whether he has enough to complete it? Otherwise, when he has laid a foundation and is not able to finish, all who see it begin to mock him, saying, "This man began to build and was not able to finish." Or what king, going out to encounter another king in war, will not sit down first and deliberate whether he is able with ten thousand to meet him who comes against him with twenty thousand? And if not, while the other is yet a great way off, he sends a delegation and asks for terms of peace. So therefore, any one of you who does not renounce all that he has cannot be my disciple.' "
-----------------------------------------
In private silence now sit I and think
and in oceans of questions softly sink.
To find some peace, a quiet search
and thus my heart ever yearns.
Head held in hands
to listen to the distant lands
cry out for hope, a desperate cry.
And I-- where am I?
Clinging, ever clinging
to this sinking
earth and treasures held in Fine land's bosom.
But what will I give to the King of heaven?
Shall I give all?
Yes, I must give all
and gladly, for my life is not my own
but his and ever shall be so.
So what future then awaits me
as in darkness now I strain to see
the path so far ahead?
It is not mine to know-- I must be led
and that by One more wise
more loving than my mind's
imaginations can surmise.
And can I fear when led by
such a kind and faithful Eye?
Though fulfilled be darkest fears
of life alone and lonely tears,
though I be despised
and seen as fool in man's full eyes
of earthly wisdom,
though life be lived in
separation, lived alone and my heart wrenched
away from a human love, unfulfilled yet unquenched,
still I will love Him,
still I will praise Him,
still I will seek His kingdom first
with a desperate hunger, unquenchable thirst.
And when my life is at an end,
my head once more held in my hand
my thoughts will wander back across
the years of joy through painful loss.
And then I'll lift my hands
and praise the great I AM
and rush to meet my Husband Christ
who made worthwhile a dying life.
He'll bid me enter to His rest,
"Fear not, for naught but gain is found in death."
----------------
And yet, I am the worse, for I am a hypocrite living a life which bears no semblance to the message I preach. Jesus, save me from myself.
Thinking. Always thinking.
But ever getting closer?
I wonder.
Though I feel the loser,
I wonder
if it is not simply a difference
in values and what is
valuable. Make sense?
My life: nothing but His.
All this world’s gloss
I’m counting it loss,
Losing the dross,
Seeking the kingdom first,
Seeking for better or worse
That fount to quench all thirst.
And I wonder,
Did Jesus really mean
everything He said?
The riches, pleasures, and comforts of this earth are something to be laughed at, not clung to.
If our great God (with Whom nothing is impossible) leads a husband to a "comfortable", established life in a civilized culture where the family can rely on his job or church support and the local health facilities and where they'll have a set routine everyday where the husband won't have to travel much either alone or with the family . . . then he’d be reasonable. Then you could understand. Then that man would be “responsible.”
But if He leads a husband to a ministry where from day to day, year to year he is completely trusting God for his financial income, where there is no hospital or even clinic just down the road, where you have to boil your drinking water, shake out your shoes every morning and bleach your eating dishes (such as they might be). Where the family might move to a new home every three years, where the persecution is vicious and your enemies are everywhere. Where each day you awake and place the protection and provision of your family completely in your God's hands-- and you know that you have no other choice because there's too much against you for you to take care of them in your own power. Where you believe in and see miracles as God's normal working . . . then, that’s hyper-radical, unreasonable, irresponsible, because there's no way to raise a family in a lifestyle like that.
He should have, of course, done the Apostle Paul thing. Only single males can follow Jesus like that. I mean Jesus couldn’t really have meant for the principles and outright commands He gave in Luke 9:23, 24, 57-62; 12:4-7, 22-34; 14:26-33; 18:18-30; 21:1-4 to be applied to ALL Christians-- even wives and children!
But that quiet, firm voice will not leave us alone: What if Jesus really meant everything He said?
Matthew 5:38-48-- “You have heard that it was said, 'An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth.' But I say to you, Do not resist the one who is evil. But if anyone slaps you on the right cheek, turn to him the other also. And if anyone would sue you and take your tunic, let him have your cloak as well. And if anyone forces you to go one mile, go with him two miles. Give to the one who begs from you, and do not refuse the one who would borrow from you. You have heard that it was said, 'You shall love your neighbor and hate your enemy.' But I say to you, Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you, so that you may be sons of your Father who is in heaven. For he makes his sun rise on the evil and on the good, and sends rain on the just and on the unjust. For if you love those who love you, what reward do you have? Do not even the tax collectors do the same? And if you greet only your brothers, what more are you doing than others? Do not even the Gentiles do the same? You therefore must be perfect, as your heavenly Father is perfect.”
Matthew 16:24-27-- “Then Jesus told his disciples, 'If anyone would come after me, let him deny himself and take up his cross and follow Me. For whoever would save his life will lose it, but whoever loses his life for my sake will find it. For what will it profit a man if he gains the whole world and forfeits his life? Or what shall a man give in return for his life? For the Son of Man is going to come with his angels in the glory of his Father, and then He will repay each person according to what he has done.' "
Luke 14:25-33-- "Now great crowds accompanied him, and he turned and said to them,
'If anyone comes to me and does not hate his own father and mother and wife and children and brothers and sisters, yes, and even his own life, he cannot be my disciple. Whoever does not bear his own cross and come after me cannot be my disciple. For which of you, desiring to build a tower, does not first sit down and count the cost, whether he has enough to complete it? Otherwise, when he has laid a foundation and is not able to finish, all who see it begin to mock him, saying, "This man began to build and was not able to finish." Or what king, going out to encounter another king in war, will not sit down first and deliberate whether he is able with ten thousand to meet him who comes against him with twenty thousand? And if not, while the other is yet a great way off, he sends a delegation and asks for terms of peace. So therefore, any one of you who does not renounce all that he has cannot be my disciple.' "
-----------------------------------------
In private silence now sit I and think
and in oceans of questions softly sink.
To find some peace, a quiet search
and thus my heart ever yearns.
Head held in hands
to listen to the distant lands
cry out for hope, a desperate cry.
And I-- where am I?
Clinging, ever clinging
to this sinking
earth and treasures held in Fine land's bosom.
But what will I give to the King of heaven?
Shall I give all?
Yes, I must give all
and gladly, for my life is not my own
but his and ever shall be so.
So what future then awaits me
as in darkness now I strain to see
the path so far ahead?
It is not mine to know-- I must be led
and that by One more wise
more loving than my mind's
imaginations can surmise.
And can I fear when led by
such a kind and faithful Eye?
Though fulfilled be darkest fears
of life alone and lonely tears,
though I be despised
and seen as fool in man's full eyes
of earthly wisdom,
though life be lived in
separation, lived alone and my heart wrenched
away from a human love, unfulfilled yet unquenched,
still I will love Him,
still I will praise Him,
still I will seek His kingdom first
with a desperate hunger, unquenchable thirst.
And when my life is at an end,
my head once more held in my hand
my thoughts will wander back across
the years of joy through painful loss.
And then I'll lift my hands
and praise the great I AM
and rush to meet my Husband Christ
who made worthwhile a dying life.
He'll bid me enter to His rest,
"Fear not, for naught but gain is found in death."
----------------
And yet, I am the worse, for I am a hypocrite living a life which bears no semblance to the message I preach. Jesus, save me from myself.
Think Happier?
Tired hands cradle a tired head. A cracking heart sinks deeper into his chest cavity as the bubble of misery rises higher and higher in his throat. Tears tease his flickering eyelids with the threat of a flood, but they find no release and the emotions building up within the prison of his chest stubbornly press on his lungs. Ragged sighs try to grow into sobs, but a strangling anger chokes them back, and he breathes with a sort of growling groan, short, sharp and bitter.
--------------------------------
When you read that description of emotional pain, how does it make you feel? Depressed? Angry? Frustrated? Why? It's not because of the hardship of this man or boy or whoever he is. You don't even know why he is miserable, and it really doesn't matter. Because you're not sad for him. You're sad for yourself. You're thinking about all the things that have made or could make you feel that way. That painfully depressed. Yet it's only your depressing thoughts. It's not your life circumstances.
So, someone says, Think happier. Does that make a difference? I mean really, could that possibly even work? Sure it could. Our emotions are greatly influenced by the thoughts we let pass through our minds. You think what you read. The more colorful the words, the more vivid the thoughts. Think about what you read. When we consume our time feasting on the difficulties and struggles of life and all the things that seem to us unfair, we will certainly find ourselves to be unhappy and reveling in self-pity.
So think happier.
--------------------------------
When you read that description of emotional pain, how does it make you feel? Depressed? Angry? Frustrated? Why? It's not because of the hardship of this man or boy or whoever he is. You don't even know why he is miserable, and it really doesn't matter. Because you're not sad for him. You're sad for yourself. You're thinking about all the things that have made or could make you feel that way. That painfully depressed. Yet it's only your depressing thoughts. It's not your life circumstances.
So, someone says, Think happier. Does that make a difference? I mean really, could that possibly even work? Sure it could. Our emotions are greatly influenced by the thoughts we let pass through our minds. You think what you read. The more colorful the words, the more vivid the thoughts. Think about what you read. When we consume our time feasting on the difficulties and struggles of life and all the things that seem to us unfair, we will certainly find ourselves to be unhappy and reveling in self-pity.
So think happier.
One Bad Day (from Sketches of Life)
I shuffle down the sidewalk quiet and alone. Quite oddly alone, for there are hundreds passing me on my left. I avoid their obtrusive stares by turning my own upon the fountain and pool to my right. The railing occupies my right hand and side-- a buffer and a welcome distraction. The morning's rain has left rows of droplets clinging to the underside of the railing and hiding from the coming sun. I find some strange sympathy for these pathetic little water particles. I'd like to be hiding too. So I don't mind that they leave my fingers wet as my hand slides along the railing. It is not my practice to ignore my mankind brothers and sisters, but this day I must, for I find no happy thought within my heart to share abroad.
The sun stealthily curls its golden paint around a towering cloud, and the gilded edges threaten to make me smile. But I resist. A smile would be wasted upon such a ruined day. And besides, the sun is inanimate-- he won't care. Just like everyone else.
I begin to step out to cross the road looking up just in time to see the car. I stumble and step back trying to regain my balance. Forget my composure. Ruddy color flushes my cheeks and I seethe through my clenched teeth.
I toy with a regret that I didn't keep walking, head down, right out in front of that car. I know I shouldn't be thinking this way, but no one else feels bad, so I continue the self-pity party in my own little world. It's an addiction of sorts.
Staring straight ahead I stalk past the library, behind the Alumni building, and wind my way around the tables and chairs outside of the coffee shop. Those who notice me and offer their “Heyhowyadoin” receive my manufactured “Goodyou” with all the insincerity I can muster.
Down the long sidewalk to the back door of Graves, I stagger, almost there. I hope no one comes busting out of the door and runs me over. But it figures. I'd be surprised if no one did.
Brett's sitting in the lobby. I hope he doesn't notice me. I don't really feel like stopping or taking the time at all. Brett's always in a good mood and, what's worse, I know he'll actually care about my puny, selfish troubles. He'll ruin my pity party, so I sneak past him and trudge up the stairs to the second floor East. Leaning on the handle to room 223 I fall into the dim light and close the door behind me. Two steps and my bookbag hits the floor by my desk. One more and I'm at the air conditioner. Andrew has it set to “Freezeyourappendagesoff” as usual. But at least he's not in the room right now. As the polar wind ceases under my controlling hand I sigh half in relief, half in resignation. But I miss the numbing sound of the air. The silence screams my pathetic loneliness. Music. Flipping open my computer, my hands rise to the tie still squeezing my neck and my head totters twice before lolling over loosely to the left. Too tired to hold my head up is too tired. Draping the now-removed noose over the back of my chair I slide into my bed six inches off the floor. Forget the music. Sleep welcomes me home. The first open arms I've found all day.
The sun stealthily curls its golden paint around a towering cloud, and the gilded edges threaten to make me smile. But I resist. A smile would be wasted upon such a ruined day. And besides, the sun is inanimate-- he won't care. Just like everyone else.
I begin to step out to cross the road looking up just in time to see the car. I stumble and step back trying to regain my balance. Forget my composure. Ruddy color flushes my cheeks and I seethe through my clenched teeth.
I toy with a regret that I didn't keep walking, head down, right out in front of that car. I know I shouldn't be thinking this way, but no one else feels bad, so I continue the self-pity party in my own little world. It's an addiction of sorts.
Staring straight ahead I stalk past the library, behind the Alumni building, and wind my way around the tables and chairs outside of the coffee shop. Those who notice me and offer their “Heyhowyadoin” receive my manufactured “Goodyou” with all the insincerity I can muster.
Down the long sidewalk to the back door of Graves, I stagger, almost there. I hope no one comes busting out of the door and runs me over. But it figures. I'd be surprised if no one did.
Brett's sitting in the lobby. I hope he doesn't notice me. I don't really feel like stopping or taking the time at all. Brett's always in a good mood and, what's worse, I know he'll actually care about my puny, selfish troubles. He'll ruin my pity party, so I sneak past him and trudge up the stairs to the second floor East. Leaning on the handle to room 223 I fall into the dim light and close the door behind me. Two steps and my bookbag hits the floor by my desk. One more and I'm at the air conditioner. Andrew has it set to “Freezeyourappendagesoff” as usual. But at least he's not in the room right now. As the polar wind ceases under my controlling hand I sigh half in relief, half in resignation. But I miss the numbing sound of the air. The silence screams my pathetic loneliness. Music. Flipping open my computer, my hands rise to the tie still squeezing my neck and my head totters twice before lolling over loosely to the left. Too tired to hold my head up is too tired. Draping the now-removed noose over the back of my chair I slide into my bed six inches off the floor. Forget the music. Sleep welcomes me home. The first open arms I've found all day.
Painting the Picture
I've always wanted to be a writer. Ever since I was eleven or twelve, at least. And ever since I started writing papers for English classes in high school, people have been telling me that I have a natural gift for writing and that I should develop that gift. But it's not just that I have a natural aptitude for words-- I truly do love to write. It's not just words on a page. It's not just the shortest distance between A and B. It's an art form. It's creating, painting, building, drawing word by word, sentence by sentence, chapter by chapter, a picture, a form, a concept that, in the mind, can be seen, heard, touched and examined from all angles.
There is a picture that begins in my mind with no words. The picture grows, develops, becomes more and more beautiful, and, as I behold it, I am compelled deep from within to share that picture with others. I must transfer that picture, that form, that concept from my own mind to the minds of others by some means. And the more precisely, the more vividly, the more effectually I paint that picture in the minds of my readers, the more perfectly they will understand what has been in my mind. That is the message. The message is the transfer, but the transfer needs a more concrete vehicle. That is writing.
There is a picture that begins in my mind with no words. The picture grows, develops, becomes more and more beautiful, and, as I behold it, I am compelled deep from within to share that picture with others. I must transfer that picture, that form, that concept from my own mind to the minds of others by some means. And the more precisely, the more vividly, the more effectually I paint that picture in the minds of my readers, the more perfectly they will understand what has been in my mind. That is the message. The message is the transfer, but the transfer needs a more concrete vehicle. That is writing.
Monday, April 7, 2008
Life Worth Living
She's sitting in that chair again. It's 7:00 this evening and she's already in her nightgown. Watching “Wheel of Fortune.” Again. By herself again. It takes a strong woman to keep on living after her husband of fifty years leaves her all alone with his death. It's been five years now and it makes you wonder what life is all about. And with this question a lot of people come up empty.
How do you keep living? Half of yourself is torn away never to be touched or held or loved again until the forevermore reunites old friends. You are left in the fading dusk of your years and the greatest portion of your life is locked away in either the past or the grave. Your friends and family are all firmly entrenched in the lives they've been living for years, and their sincere condolences somehow never translated into renewed life for you. You are bereft of the energy and the drive to just get up and go. To go do something-- anything. To explore. To discover. To create. How do you find that passion? When it's gone . . . how do you go on living?
Yet, the question is not simply for those who find themselves at the end of their lives. No, millions will ask it all around the world today. In Africa a teenage boy longingly gazes at his calendar picture of New York City-- his dream for as long as he can remember-- and, realizing he will never in his life have enough money to go there, he resigns, drops the the picture into the fire and asks the question hopelessly. An upscale apartment door in London is slowly closed as a young man watches the wife he once loved more than anything, including his precious job and portfolio, walk out of his life. And he wonders why or how he should face tomorrow and the next day and the next. There is the mother in China who looks sadly on as her two children sit eating the same rice they've eaten at every meal, and she prepares to go to work in the same factory making the same towels for the rich Americans and is there anything more to life? Is there anything worth it?
And it's the twenty year-old at a college she disagrees with about everything. And she's rolling up debt as she lives a dorm lifestyle so foreign to real life that she wonders what it's really like. The B's and C's she receives, far from consoling, are never good enough and she doesn't really even know what she wants to do with her life. So as she unpacks her bags into her dorm room after another Christmas Break, she collapses onto her bed and, staring blankly through the wall, questions why she is there-- why she is even living. And as duty binds her to her circumstances, how does she go on?
When duty is not enough, how do you find that passion that makes life worth the consciousness. How do you go on? It doesn't come with the big city or with the wife of your youth or with a job or an American lifestyle. So what is it that makes life at the top, in the middle or at the bottom worth living? What is it that brings a smile to the face of the African man sitting on a dirt floor. What satisfies the Thai fisherman who sleeps tonight on his bamboo bed with nothing but a spear and a net?
What is it that we're all really looking for? Is it love? Is it security? Is it freedom? What is it that will bring the smile of peace to our lips? What is it that we're living this life for? There is nothing wrong with asking these questions. The problem arises when the only answer we can come up is “nothing.” And if there is nothing more to this life than that which we can see and hear and grasp with our physical bodies, than there really is nothing. Because we all know this physical body will one day once again become nothing. If there is a reality, it cannot be physical. Or if it is, then this is the best it gets. Pain, death, misery, failure, hopelessness, nothing. The best it gets?
I don't believe that. I believe that there is more to this life than that which we can see and hear and grasp physically, both now and forevermore. I cannot prove it, because I cannot see it, but that's faith. My faith is built on the evidence that lies within and all around. There is more, and the best is yet to come. I believe Him. And that is enough to go on.
How do you keep living? Half of yourself is torn away never to be touched or held or loved again until the forevermore reunites old friends. You are left in the fading dusk of your years and the greatest portion of your life is locked away in either the past or the grave. Your friends and family are all firmly entrenched in the lives they've been living for years, and their sincere condolences somehow never translated into renewed life for you. You are bereft of the energy and the drive to just get up and go. To go do something-- anything. To explore. To discover. To create. How do you find that passion? When it's gone . . . how do you go on living?
Yet, the question is not simply for those who find themselves at the end of their lives. No, millions will ask it all around the world today. In Africa a teenage boy longingly gazes at his calendar picture of New York City-- his dream for as long as he can remember-- and, realizing he will never in his life have enough money to go there, he resigns, drops the the picture into the fire and asks the question hopelessly. An upscale apartment door in London is slowly closed as a young man watches the wife he once loved more than anything, including his precious job and portfolio, walk out of his life. And he wonders why or how he should face tomorrow and the next day and the next. There is the mother in China who looks sadly on as her two children sit eating the same rice they've eaten at every meal, and she prepares to go to work in the same factory making the same towels for the rich Americans and is there anything more to life? Is there anything worth it?
And it's the twenty year-old at a college she disagrees with about everything. And she's rolling up debt as she lives a dorm lifestyle so foreign to real life that she wonders what it's really like. The B's and C's she receives, far from consoling, are never good enough and she doesn't really even know what she wants to do with her life. So as she unpacks her bags into her dorm room after another Christmas Break, she collapses onto her bed and, staring blankly through the wall, questions why she is there-- why she is even living. And as duty binds her to her circumstances, how does she go on?
When duty is not enough, how do you find that passion that makes life worth the consciousness. How do you go on? It doesn't come with the big city or with the wife of your youth or with a job or an American lifestyle. So what is it that makes life at the top, in the middle or at the bottom worth living? What is it that brings a smile to the face of the African man sitting on a dirt floor. What satisfies the Thai fisherman who sleeps tonight on his bamboo bed with nothing but a spear and a net?
What is it that we're all really looking for? Is it love? Is it security? Is it freedom? What is it that will bring the smile of peace to our lips? What is it that we're living this life for? There is nothing wrong with asking these questions. The problem arises when the only answer we can come up is “nothing.” And if there is nothing more to this life than that which we can see and hear and grasp with our physical bodies, than there really is nothing. Because we all know this physical body will one day once again become nothing. If there is a reality, it cannot be physical. Or if it is, then this is the best it gets. Pain, death, misery, failure, hopelessness, nothing. The best it gets?
I don't believe that. I believe that there is more to this life than that which we can see and hear and grasp physically, both now and forevermore. I cannot prove it, because I cannot see it, but that's faith. My faith is built on the evidence that lies within and all around. There is more, and the best is yet to come. I believe Him. And that is enough to go on.
The Libray (from Sketches of Life)
The library is a pleasant place to study. Sometimes. And depending where you go. There are those hairy monstrosities serving as study booths. Their shag carpet skin is quite a detestable sight, and one dares not think too deeply about what these furs have seen in the million years of service they've paid to the University. I opt for a table-- all my own. Less privacy but more space and no worries about what may come crawling forth from that nasty yellow rug that covers each cubicle.
I can spread out on my table. I can see all my missions and analytically choose which ones to ignore the longest. There are six chairs all around my table, but I needn't worry about any late party crashers dropping in to help me study. I'm upstairs, tucked away in the 800s. Chinatown they call it. That's because of all the Korean academy students immigrated to these tables and booths. But I like the Koreans. They mind their own business and are quite happy with me minding mine. And they don't tell me how to do it.
This is kind of like an old western town. It's a mixing pot of different lives. You shouldn't be surprised by who you meet here, but you know you will be. Here you'll find those who have a different value system about their lives and work and simply don't want to worry about everyone else's value systems and certainly find no use in talking with another human. Maybe you'll find those who simply don't have anyone to spend time with and are pushed away from those who do. Or maybe you'll find someone like me-- someone who's hiding. On the run you might say. Just needing some time to think in a place where nobody's watching, where nobody's trying to figure out what you're thinking about.
But I'm not alone, and I know it. As I slide my chair back and stretch, I look around. Gliding in between tables and chairs and booths in search of the drinking fountain, I am all too aware of the peripheral glances and the would-be covert, over-the-top-edge-of-the-booth, appraising stares. And it affects me. I am dressed well tonight and feel that people see me as well put together-- cool, even. It's merely an appearance, not a status I can actually live out, but I milk it with a swagger and an aloof boredom in my eyes. I like feeling confident and powerful; it's a feeling I don't often get to enjoy, so I revel in it-- never mind the hypocrisy. Besides, everyone's playing the part of something they are not. At least, everyone who gets noticed. And even when I'm on the run and in hiding, I still like to have respecting glances cast my way, I still want to be noticed-- just so long as they don't try to talk to me.
It's 10 o'clock now and I catch a glimpse of that library girl who's really nice but looks weird. She's bouncing from table to table as she moves towards the back of the second floor, towards the 800s. She stops quietly at each table or booth and I know what she's going to say to my quiet little study table. “The library's closing. Start heading out.” Begrudgingly I stand and shove books into my bag. I know that the library doesn't close until 10:15, but I don't mention it to the library girl. Instead I'll just mutter about it to myself. I'm only shallowly miffed and that because I piddled too much of my time away and only worked productively for about an hour. Deeper inside I'm glad they're kicking me out of the library. Gives me an excuse to close the books and forget about ancient British literature and how the adolescent mind develops its cognitive learning chemicals. Or whatever that psycho dude was saying. I have thirty minutes to find something more worthwhile to do, like goof off in the hallway of my dorm with normal people.
I can spread out on my table. I can see all my missions and analytically choose which ones to ignore the longest. There are six chairs all around my table, but I needn't worry about any late party crashers dropping in to help me study. I'm upstairs, tucked away in the 800s. Chinatown they call it. That's because of all the Korean academy students immigrated to these tables and booths. But I like the Koreans. They mind their own business and are quite happy with me minding mine. And they don't tell me how to do it.
This is kind of like an old western town. It's a mixing pot of different lives. You shouldn't be surprised by who you meet here, but you know you will be. Here you'll find those who have a different value system about their lives and work and simply don't want to worry about everyone else's value systems and certainly find no use in talking with another human. Maybe you'll find those who simply don't have anyone to spend time with and are pushed away from those who do. Or maybe you'll find someone like me-- someone who's hiding. On the run you might say. Just needing some time to think in a place where nobody's watching, where nobody's trying to figure out what you're thinking about.
But I'm not alone, and I know it. As I slide my chair back and stretch, I look around. Gliding in between tables and chairs and booths in search of the drinking fountain, I am all too aware of the peripheral glances and the would-be covert, over-the-top-edge-of-the-booth, appraising stares. And it affects me. I am dressed well tonight and feel that people see me as well put together-- cool, even. It's merely an appearance, not a status I can actually live out, but I milk it with a swagger and an aloof boredom in my eyes. I like feeling confident and powerful; it's a feeling I don't often get to enjoy, so I revel in it-- never mind the hypocrisy. Besides, everyone's playing the part of something they are not. At least, everyone who gets noticed. And even when I'm on the run and in hiding, I still like to have respecting glances cast my way, I still want to be noticed-- just so long as they don't try to talk to me.
It's 10 o'clock now and I catch a glimpse of that library girl who's really nice but looks weird. She's bouncing from table to table as she moves towards the back of the second floor, towards the 800s. She stops quietly at each table or booth and I know what she's going to say to my quiet little study table. “The library's closing. Start heading out.” Begrudgingly I stand and shove books into my bag. I know that the library doesn't close until 10:15, but I don't mention it to the library girl. Instead I'll just mutter about it to myself. I'm only shallowly miffed and that because I piddled too much of my time away and only worked productively for about an hour. Deeper inside I'm glad they're kicking me out of the library. Gives me an excuse to close the books and forget about ancient British literature and how the adolescent mind develops its cognitive learning chemicals. Or whatever that psycho dude was saying. I have thirty minutes to find something more worthwhile to do, like goof off in the hallway of my dorm with normal people.
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